


A Dandelion in Winter

by Unreal_Kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Idiots in Love, M/M, Older Characters, aging woes, silver fox jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unreal_Kitty/pseuds/Unreal_Kitty
Summary: Jaskier had a quality of eternal youth about him. A veneer of springtime that clung to his clothes, his face, his voice. It could drive a man, especially as grumpy a man as Geralt, to madness. But eyes that starry were contagious, and they kept the witcher young.But recently, Geralt has noticed lines about the bard’s eyes that weren’t there before. And silver dusting his hair. He doesn’t want to think about what those grey strands foreshadow. And yet, there they are, ominous as the first flurries at Autumn's end.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 123





	A Dandelion in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this wonderful artwork by daryshkart on Tumblr. https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/190932290034/i-love-immortal-jaskier-concept-but-i-raise-you

Jaskier had a quality of eternal youth about him. A veneer of springtime that clung to his clothes, his face, his voice. 

Maybe it was his immature sense of humor. Maybe it was his irrepressible, sunny outlook on life. He was the spirit of boyishness made flesh, his Dandelion. 

_It could drive a man to madness,_ thought Geralt, as he tossed kindling into the fire. After a long, exhausting trek through the woods, the two men had finally made camp in a small clearing. Well, the witcher had made camp, anyway. The bard had elected to do...well, exactly what bards do. Plop himself down and wear the ears off any unfortunate woodland creatures nearby with a tune or twelve. It was a wonder he and Roach hadn’t gone deaf, so long in the troubadour's company 

Yes, it could drive a man to madness indeed. Especially a man as old and cantankerous as he. Hell, Geralt was _born_ old and cranky. Well, not quite. He had just passed from child to hardened elder without the flush of adolescence in between. The witcher trials stole the stars from his eyes before they had the chance to fully form. 

But Jaskier, brilliant Jaskier, had starry eyes to spare, and he was generous in sharing them. Perhaps that was why Geralt kept him around. Someone to bring back the starlight. Someone to give him a taste of youth again, if only for the length of a song. 

Yes, that’s why he put up with the folly and the trouble and the incessant, unrepentant jabbering.

_Well, that, among other things,_ thought Geralt, as he took in the bard’s shamelessly-fitted trousers and raskish face. 

Yet with decades behind them now, Geralt couldn't help but notice the slight wrinkles at the corners of the bard’s eyes. They had always crinkled up in laughter (and he laughed often). But now, the lines remained even after the grin retreated. 

And the witcher couldn’t help but spot the silver strands that were starting to thread their way through Jaskier’s dark hair. The frost dusting his fastidious beard (when had he grown it out?). For years, the man went clean-shaven, lest it come in thin and patchy. A youth’s scruff. Now, it was a full, rich thing, and greying at that. 

Geralt frowned. He had lived more than his share of lifetimes and had watched the world grow old around him. The kings and inkeeps and highwaymen on the road, their faces faded with every Winter. 

But not Jaskier, never Jaskier. Jaskier did not know Winter. Jaskier _defied_ Winter, as brazenly as he brushed aside Geralt’s frequent grumbles. 

The troubadour was all Spring, a bold, foolish season who did not yet know or care to understand the threat of Fall. 

And yet, there they were, ominous as the first flurries at Autumn's end.

Geralt eyed the faded strands of Jaskier’s hair and swallowed hard. His flower, unfaded, was starting to wilt, and it terrified the witcher.

It followed him, the fear, pricking his gut when Jaskier would climb to his feet after a night on the cold ground to the sound of creaking bones. When the bard would smile at him with thinner cheeks less prone to dimpling. When he’d play a song now filled to the brim with meaning, where once a shallow ditty would suffice. 

Jaskier was tinkering with one of those songs now, retreading and reworking bits of lyric as he plucked the strings of his lute. 

_Oh, I’ll sing of the lion_

_Forever asleep_

_Since the Red Rose of Bryon_

_Vowed to ne’re again weep_

_Beneath the summer sun,_

_my dearies,_

_beneath the summer sun._

_The Rose has her briar,_

_The Sylvan, his horns…_

“Hmm.” Jaskier chewed on a thumb nail, thinking. 

_The Rose has her briar_ ,

_Her lover, his horn_

_But a sly sylvan lordling_ ,

_Draws nothing but scorn_ …

“No, that’s not it.” 

_But a sly sylvan lordling_

_It would not be borne…er_

_But a sweet sylvan lordling_ …. 

The bard suddenly stopped and eyed the witcher. “Are you alright, Geralt?” 

“Mmmmph,” the witcher grunted. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Geralt tossed out his typical taciturn syllables in a futile effort to avoid a discussion. 

But futile, it was. A wolf, in the unrelenting glare of springtime sun, was as toothless as a dandelion. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter.”

“You keep staring at me.”

Something like the ghost of a grin twitched on one corner of Geralt’s lips. “There’s been nothing but trees, trees, and more trees for the past week. What else am i going to fucking look at?”

Years ago, Jaskier may have accepted that answer and moved on. Years ago. 

A spark of mischief glinted in his dark eyes. “Mmmmph,” said the bard. 

Geralt rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh. “It’s your hair.”

Jaskier looked taken aback. “What of it?”

“You’re going grey. Getting old on me, huh?” Geralt fought to keep his tone light. If he could fool Jaskier, perhaps he could fool himself. 

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. “Old? Alright, Grandpa, if you say so.” He tugged on Geralt’s white locks to emphasize his point. 

The witcher shot him a death glare that would stop a striga in her tracks. Of course on Jaskier, it had no effect. 

“What?” He tsked. “Oh, come now, Geralt, it’s just a bit of grey.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “The ladies say it makes me look distinguished.”

Geralt snorted. 

The bard beamed at him. “Jealousy does not become you, dear heart.” 

“I’m not—”

“Fear not; I may play for many, but you know the song’s just for you.”

Geralt turned his head with the dignity of an old lion and watched the flames crackle. 

For some time, the conversation lulled. Jaskier picked up his lute again and plucked here and there at the strings, searching for just the right bridge for his latest tune. 

Unusually, it was Geralt who broke the peaceful silence. “I don’t understand how you can take this so..blithely.” 

“Take what?”

“Evidence of your own mortality.”

Jaskier shot him a rueful smile. “As tactful as ever. Why use gentle words when you can bludgeon me with your bluntness?”

The witcher grunted. 

Jaskier set aside the lute and shrugged his shoulders. “I face danger every day. What’s a stray grey hair compared to a djinn or a ghoul or a cockatrice? It’s risky business, following you around.”

“I don’t mean to—”

“Oh, hush, I’m not complaining. Of course I’m not. What better life could a troubadour ask for? I’ve all the adventure I’ll ever need, all the glory I’ll ever want, and a traveling companion who can drink me under the table.” He jostled Geralt’s shoulder and shot him a fond smile. “And anyway, I’ve earned every last grey.”

“Oh?”

“The stress, Geralt. Running around with as bull-headed a man as you, it’s a wonder my hair isn’t as white as yours.”

“Are you even capable of being serious?”

Jaskier laughed. The sound rang through Geralt like springtime. “Oh come now. You asked me about contemplating my own mortality. How could I possibly take that seriously? Mortality is, by its very nature, ridiculous.”

“Hmmph.”

Jaskier looked away, thinking. Then, in a softer voice, “It’s not so bad.”

“Mortality?”

Jaskier peered at Geralt with an inscrutable expression. “My hair.”

“Hmm?”

“Yes. I look forward to the day we match. Two heads of wolf-white. Then people will think I’m the witcher and you, the bard.”

“Uh huh.” Geralt couldn’t help but smile through his skepticism. Exactly as Jaskier had intended. 

“I’ll just have to practice my impression of you. It can’t be too hard. All I’ll have to do is look grumpy and speak in monosyllables...and wear an excessive amount of leather.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but Jaskier wasn’t finished. “And we’ll just have to get you in one of my costumes to complete the switch.” 

“Wait, what?”

Jaskier eyed him impishly. “I wonder how you’d look in a lovely feathered cap. A great, big violet affair topped with a peacock’s plume.”

“Try it and you won’t live to grow another grey hair.” 

Jaskier laughed, shaking his head. He picked up his lute. 

_Oh, I’ll sing of the lion_

_Forever asleep_

_Since the Red Rose of Bryon_

_Vowed to ne’re again weep_

_Beneath the summer sun,_

_my dearies,_

_beneath the summer sun._

_The Rose has her briar,_

_Her lover, his horn_

_But a sweet sylvan lordling_

_It would not be borne_ ….

Geralt leaned back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes. Jaskier was Jaskier, no matter the color of his hair. 


End file.
